A True Slytherin Romance
by Shane McGowan Lives
Summary: After the Second War. My little idea on how a romance would truly develop between a Slytherin and our Boy Wonder. I couldn't think of a good second genre, and it's more than just a romance. R&R.


A True Slytherin Romance

By

He-Who-Will-Conquer-Happily

(that's what my name means in Latin, folks)

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I plan on making any money off of this work. If I somehow do happen to make some money off of this, I'll go buy myself a pizza and Medieval II: Total War. That game looks so awesome. Yeah.

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He had...no—has such lovely pride. It was my ambition that first drew me to him; I was captivated at how someone who wanted nothing to do with power could have so much of it. So much power. He was the poster child for brooding heroes after the debacle at the Department of Mysteries, and it only drew me farther in. It only gave him more power and prestige; it only made him more desirable. He had so much power.

He walked with a pronounced limp after finally defeating the Dark Lord. No one knew really how he did it; no one really cared. All that mattered was that he was gone. He only grew more popular after that, he only grew more reclusive. Only that Granger girl and Weasley boy were ever really seen out in public after that. Instead of destroying the old Black Manor, he moved into it, choosing to live there, in his memories.

I couldn't stand to watch such lovely power and pride wither away.

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I made doubly sure that what I wore wouldn't seem too provocative; my plans were too important not to carry out perfectly. It would take some time, but I was firm in my resolve. He was all the stereotypical Gryffindor, and he had no idea what his power and influence could do. By all accounts, he didn't care. Ostensibly, I was headed to his house to discuss his holdings in my family's business; he had a significant amount from the Black inheritance. And from the Dark Lord to his emotional breakdown, he didn't seem to know anything about his inheritance. That was something I would fix. It would require many, many a night alone with him.

Perfect. You all well know that I wasn't going to settle for just that. I was going to court him.

My father and mother both weren't on hand to give me their opinions, having been murdered by Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange. My uncle on my father's side only gave me a calculating glance as I left. He knew exactly what I had planned. Actually, had my family not been murdered by the Dark Lord's lackeys, I would have seriously considered joining his group; after all, despite the growing obsession with _his_ growing power, it was nothing compared to the Dark Lord's. But merely because I am ruled by ambition does not mean love cannot live in me as well, and I spied for the Order of the Phoenix as revenge; the group, having lost Snape, needed someone badly to give them information. And with me 'cowed' by my parents' deaths, I was uniquely situated to feed both sides information, though my loyalty was much more cemented with the Order. Sadly, I never saw him often, as he disappeared his last year to destroy the Dark Lord, going on his quest with his two friends, both with enough loyalty for a Hufflepuff.

By the message I had received from him, his Floo would only be open for a minute at half past three; so, without delay I flooed to 12 Grimmauld Place to have a chat with Harry Potter.

The house elf was waiting for me when I arrived, and was ready to rush me off to see 'the Master Harry Potter' immediately. I wouldn't hear of it though, and told the elf to announce my arrival while I smoothed the invisible creases and wrinkles in my dress. The elf returned in short order, and after I finally deemed myself presentable, he led me through the large, dark mansion. We walked up a staircase down the hallway from the front door, and I noticed an empty frame hanging on the wall; idly I wondered about it, but soon dismissed it from my mind. It wasn't important to me at the moment, and if it was, I would soon learn about it. As we passed the clean spot, a voice called out to me:

"And who might you be, young lady?" A young voice that sounded old. I spun, and found myself looking at a gaunt man with long black hair, and black eyes that glittered strangely. A young man who looked old. I remembered the face from my third year. Sirius Black.

"It's fine, Sirius," a voice drifted from upstairs, past my line of sight. Sirius Black huffed, and walked out of the frame. Quite used to odd paintings of odder people, I continued walking up the stairs. I knew all about Pettigrew and Black and Harry; being both an (thankfully) unmarked Death Eater and a member of the Order squashed any of the rumours and lies I had been told.

"This way, Miss," the excitable little elf twittered, leading down another hallway to an open door, and a sitting room. The window-curtains weren't drawn, allowing the rain outside to drum on the window in a staccato beat that changed every so often as the wind changed course or intensity.

The elf took a deep breath to announce my entrance, but a pale hand waved listlessly from the high-backed chair that obstructed my view of him. He was facing the fireplace, and a fire was crackling merrily.

"Thank you, Dobby," he said. The elf bowed unnecessarily(the 'master' couldn't see him, facing the fire as he was), and left the room, stating that he would cater to the Master and Miss's immediate need for refreshments. He didn't answer. I noticed Sirius Black in a frame above the fireplace, staring at the occupant of the chair, waiting, as if for an answer. One came not too soon after the elf left.

"She's here on business, Sirius," he said, his voice a low breathy sound that reminded of Dumbledore when he wasn't pitching his voice in the Great Hall to carry over the hundreds of self-absorbed childrens'. I hadn't heard it but once or twice, but each time was memorable, and I was reminded of those times when he spoke. Dumbledore had been many times more cheerful though. He stood slowly, and turned to face me.

That's when any lingering doubt I had was washed away. I knew then that I would choose him and have him for my own; I knew when he stood and leant heavily on his cane and faced me, letting his green eyes take me in. I had heard about his eyes, how disconcerting they could be. I found out then that all those rumours were romanticised lies, made up by giggling girls who saw his face on their weekly tabloid magazines. They were beautiful, yes, but not of any merit of their own. No, his eyes were made beautiful when I took all of him in. _He_ made his eyes beautiful. When I looked upon him, and saw his wild shoulder length hair, obviously a tribute to the man in the painting above the fireplace, and his black clothing; all these things and the dark room all conspired against me and I, well I didn't fall in love, my breathing didn't hitch nor did anything out of the normal occur, but I _knew_.

He looked the part of the Lord of the romance novels; his mein and the house reminded me of Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre, only he was much, much more withdrawn than the recalcitrant ugly man (yes, I read a Muggle book; I've read many if you want know). He wasn't handsome, by any stretch of the imagination, but he definitely wasn't ugly. No, he had a distinguished look about him. He could evoke an impressive authoritative air about him if he wanted, I surmised as he gazed back upon me and my dark red dress; it was closer to black than red, but not so much that one would be able to tell right away. He was in Slytherin colours; I was bedecked in Gryffindor, the gold of my sparse jewellery glinting in the firelight and the muted grey daylight filtered by the rain clouds outside. Suddenly his eyes left me, and his wand was in his hand. A flick of his wrist later a much more comfortable looking chair than his was conjured, sitting a yard or so away from him, with its own end table. As the chair and table appeared, so did my sudden nervousness at the ease with which he wielded his wand disappear. War leaves scars too numerous and too deep to see.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the conjured armchair as he heavily sat down himself, closing his eyes for a brief moment as his weight settled into the cushions. "We have much to discuss, if I read your letter correctly."

I sat down, and the little elf, Dobby, popped into the room holding a tray laden with a tea set and some scones. He (Harry) muttered a spell under his breath, and two tea cups floated to each end table. Dobby busied himself pouring the tea and adding the sugar and cream while we sat there; I was staring at him, he was staring into the fire, mesmerized by the flickering flames. Soon the elf had left again, but only after the master of the house promised him that he would call if he needed anything.

"He has quite enough to deal with, what with Winky and the children and all," he grumbled in that same sad, breathy tone that sounded nothing like I had heard from him before.

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I came and left several times after that, every time as I walked up the staircase to the sitting room Sirius Black would ask me,

"Who might you be, young lady?"

And each time, he would make it sound like a completely different question than the time he had asked me before. I would never answer the question, because I could never understand what he was actually asking me each time. Every time I returned with an answer, only to find that the question had changed, though the wording remained the same.

It annoyed me greatly, but I never complained. My other company outside of the dark gloomy mansion never made me think so much. I thought the portrait knew me, or at least knew of me, as I had been around this house before, when I was a spy for the Order. I only knew the first floor plan somewhat well; I had never before ascended the stairs. But I remembered a screaming woman where his painting now hung; they (or he) had managed to get the woman off of the wall, after all. I was glad; she was an irritation of the highest degree. When I told the painted Sirius that he was rapidly getting as annoying with his questions as she had been with her screaming, he laughed, and I learned she was his mother; and that he would take the insult as anything but. I didn't quite understand, and he knew it and laughed his barking, dog-like laugh, the one that would make Harry smile, if a bit wanly. At least Sirius could get him to smile.

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Slowly but surely I walked him through his inheritances: the Black, the original one I had planned to do, along with the Potter inheritance too, though it was nothing compared to the Black one. Many had been under the impression that the Potters were a very rich line. They would be mistaken, of course. The Potters were an older Pureblood line, but they had nowhere near the financial and political clout the Malfoy or Black families could throw around. Most of the money had come from capturing wanted Death Eaters during the first war. Most of the Potter family assets were in land and stocks and such, and while not very much land and not terribly good stock, nearly two decades of interest and no spending had made the family very well off. Especially the steady income that some of the rented out pieces of land gave him.

Sirius Black helped out by explaining the details of the Black will he had made; though he ended up learning about as much about the Black fortune as Harry did.

'I never expected to be receiving it,' he said when I, exasperated with his questions, had asked him why he had known so little about his own fortune. 'Why bother learning about it?'

Harry just smiled sadly at Sirius, chuckling, remembering. Sirius tried to pretend that he didn't notice.

I managed to get him out of the mansion and about to over look the properties under his name, both from the Potter and the Black wills. There were several; though most would have to be renovated after having been abandoned for some time. One had gone to the werewolf friend of his, Lupin; the former professor lived there by himself, though he was often visited by the Tonks girl. Granger made him the Wolfsbane Potion (only her eidetic memory and obsessive-compulsive need to make notes worthy of a Potions journal essay submission allowed her to carry out the deed with any sort of success), and the Tonks girl would sleep in the same house to throw her trust in him in his face when he worried about her during his transformations.

Harry would go through the transitions with him as well, his own wolf form making it easy to get along with Moony during those nights. I resolved myself to learn my own Animagus transformation as quickly as possible; if I was to be his wife, I would need to understand what this part of his life was like, and despite the potion, Lupin would let no one near when he was transformed.

We also made several trips to Gringotts, to settle his accounts. I was amazed at how much respect the Goblins showed him; apparently remembering their names goes a long way. He was the most relaxed, if possible, around the Goblins.

"They treat me like I am just another human. Not like I'm famous, or powerful, or anything like that. I'm just human, to them. I like that."

He had more power than even I had estimated. Such lovely power, and influence.

Despite all his new knowledge about his properties and what exactly he owned, and what stock he had where and how many, he only ever expressed interest in one store: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Somehow, the twins had survived the war, and though a bit less outgoing than I remembered, they still loved playing pranks.

He finally incited me to go with him to check the shop out, when an invitation to do so came along from 'Gred and Forge', despite my many and deep misgivings about the whole thing. I didn't truly want to go at all, and considered the entire shop to be childish and immature. I told him this, and he wasn't offended at all.

In fact, he even smiled at me. I will forever remember that as the day I first managed to get him to smile. His answer was simple and direct:

"It is," he said, not arguing at all; that was when he smiled sadly, his eyes slightly twinkling like a certain former headmaster's. "I never had the chance to be childish and immature, though. It reminds me that I saved something worthy of being saved: innocence and youth, if not for me, then for everyone else."

I resolved then to revise my opinions about the shop and pranks and jokes.

They teased him mercilessly about bringing me along, though it did tone down when he described my position to them. 'Financial Advisor' wasn't nearly as satisfying as 'Wife', or 'Lover', but I would make do with what I had, and sooner or later, I would get him. The jokes and teasing mostly ran off him like water on a duck's back, though a few times I saw him get slightly red.

When we left the shop, it was brimming with people brought out by his appearance, and his good mood somewhat deflated. It irked me; how could someone with so much want so little? But I wasn't annoyed, or anything like that. It was more of idle consideration. It was even a bit admirable, but I can not still understand it. But I saw how unrefined this power and influence was throughout the entire time I had known him; and I could see how much more powerful he could be if it was wielded correctly. I should have seen it then, I think. I began to think of how it would better him, as well as how much it would benefit me; when I pictured it, instead of me walking out alone into the world with his power and influence as my tools, I would see him behind me, his power and influence my grounding, protecting me, and protecting him as well. But I did not think I loved him—even now I still would not say I loved him then; it was more like I cared for him, as a friend would. As Granger and Weasley did, and do, though I suppose it should be Weasley and Weasley now. But I digress.

I now had a goal. I would save him, as he saved everyone else. I would take everything I wanted, that he didn't want. It wasn't much different than what I had planned before, but then, at that point I wanted him to be happy as well. I couldn't have cared less about him or his happiness before then. I would make him a Legend, and take that Legend upon myself. I would be his face to the outside world, I would soak up the light and influence and power, but not for myself, for him. It was my forte, and what I had planned and prepared for for years. Now I would get a benefit from making someone I cared about happy. It couldn't have worked out more easily than if I had planned it since birth.

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I had changed; I noticed that. But how? My motivations were the same, my personality hadn't changed all that much; that would have changed in time anyway, as everyone's does. How? I sensed something had grown, and gotten smaller at the same time. I puzzled it over in my head, and still couldn't find the answer. I couldn't get a handle on anything, though I acted my way excellently through all my interactions without a hitch. Somehow, slowly, I found myself falling in love with him with each story he told; with each slow, sad smile. I was losing myself, my sense of place within the universe.

When I walked past Sirius's painting I heard the old question:

"Who might you be, young lady?"

This time, despite not knowing the answer, I answered anyway:

"I don't know; I'm not who I was yesterday, and not who I'm going to be tomorrow. I guess, for the moment, I am who I am, right now."

"Good enough for me," he said.

Sirius smiled at me then, something he hadn't done yet, and nodded; as much to himself as to me. I continued on, puzzling over my answer and his response. I entered the sitting room, and sat down in the same chair across from him, and looked at him. He looked back at me for a long moment, his dull green eyes, beautifully framed by wild black hair tied back loosely.

After a long moment, in which he looked very flustered, he said, "I'm not ambitious enough to be a Slytherin; you know that. I am happy right here, where I am right now."

So he had finally figured it out. Of course, he had always _known_, but not until now had it fully dawned on him that I was courting him. And he was rubbish at the whole dating thing, too. As long as he didn't know it was a date, he could sweep someone off of their feet, but the second he figures out the something more...

But he was telling me without using the words: I don't want more power or fame; the glory that you want.

"I may not be in love with you, Harry," I said, "but I think I could very well try, and I've got enough ambition for the both of us."

He was silent for a moment, and I began to curse my audacity; I knew he didn't like to be pushed, but here I was, throwing down the gauntlet. But then he took my hand, hesitating when his fingertips touched my palm, before intertwining our fingers and squeezing my hand lightly. I realized that I had without my notice scooted my chair closer to his. I didn't care.

"So you do," he said looking at my hand in his before looking back up at me, "And, I think I could do more than try."

And then he kissed me.

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Somehow, the simple band of gold is much more elegant and beautiful than the diamonds I admired and dreamed of when I was younger; I realize it isn't the physicality that makes it so, but the fact that it is a symbol of a truth between him and me, between the both of us. We sit in the sitting room, staring at the flames, relishing the feeling of the small area where our hands can't touch the other, because of the cold gold that is in the way, and warms up quickly when our hands clasp.

I remember when he asked me about my name; how I received it.

I blushed, "The healers were absolutely sure I was to be a boy; they never even let my parents entertain the thought I would be a girl. So a birth certificate was filled out, leaving my date of birth blank. With a magical document like that, they couldn't change it, and since I was born in Italy while my parents were on holiday, there weren't any other forms lying around. So I got stuck with the name."

He smiled, something he had been doing more often around then.

"I always wondered, you know," he said, obviously remembering back to First Year. "How a girl could end up with a name like Blaise." He was still smiling, enjoying the irony. It hadn't been long after our first kiss, and his hand took mine, and I stood from my chair and settled in his lap.

"Stain on the Zabini family memory, that story is," I said lightly as I made myself comfortable, "My parents didn't trust healers very much after that, and my uncle always went to great pains to somehow remind them of it." I sighed and burrowed deeper into his warm embrace, watching the flames eat away at the pieces of wood set in the fireplace; pieces of wood that would never burn up, thanks to magic.

"I always wondered why you just sat here looking into the fire all the time," I said after a moment, "But I sort of realized it after I realized I cared for you. I used to think you were remembering, living in the past, but...," I trailed off, staring into the flames, contemplating how my life and all the people led me here.

"I was," he said, "at first; just remembering them, I mean. I never had time to mourn Sirius, or Charlie, Dumbledore...," he trailed off. The list could go on for some time, I was sure, but he had already mourned their passing.

"But after a while it hurt less, and I began thinking about how they had entered and affected my life, how it all led me to this chair, staring into the fire. The past is never really past, you know? They're not just memories, but lessons; I was rubbish at actual schoolwork, but I couldn't—I can't afford to ignore these."

I nodded, finally understanding.

To love, one must accept the flame's ability to burn you as well as keep you warm. Otherwise, you'll always be cold, shivering in the dark.

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AN: Just a little something I wrote when I though how a _real_ Slytherin, a real person, would go about courting Harry Potter.


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